


Canine Therapy

by grace_of_baal



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Will, Vulnerable Hannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 01:49:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3750424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grace_of_baal/pseuds/grace_of_baal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Hannibal is irrevocably traumatized by an incident he cannot even properly recall, Will sets about helping him recover through the ways he knows best.<br/><br/><i>“They use dogs to help military veterans overcome PTSD.”</i><br/><i>“I am fully aware of those experiments - and that’s all they are as of now, experiments. There’s still a lack of significant empirical data that supports the effectiveness of -”</i><br/><i>“Come on, Dr. Lecter. I think he might help with the bad dreams. What’s the worst that can happen? ”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chicken Soup

**Author's Note:**

> vulnerable!Hannibal again. And dogs. I enjoy both those things. Originally in one part but I decided to split into two. 
> 
> (this would be set before season 2; season 1 references aren't really made either. everything related to Mischa is influenced at least to some extent by Hannibal Rising)

Hannibal couldn't remember, and that unsettled him more than anything.

He had no idea where he was nor how he had gotten here. Only wisps of memory floated about him, frustratingly indistinct and just out of reach. He could tell he was likely injured or incapacitated in some way  - his limbs were as heavy as lead, and may as well been strapped down to the mattress he was lying on. His breaths came quickly for reasons unknown, the constricting sensation in his chest one he hadn’t felt since he was a mere boy. He was unnerved by his own weakness, and how disoriented and _useless_ his mind was to him right now.  

He couldn’t move. He couldn't _think_.

Hannibal was beginning to panic.

Every instinct told him to flee from this place, to somewhere safe. Where was ‘safe’? He was lost, alone. He forced his eyes open, gasping, and laboured to right his unresponsive body. The IV lines hooked to his arms were pulling at him; he could feel rough bandages lying across his skin everywhere, and dull aches were beginning to prod at him with increasing intensity as he struggled. He could barely take in the details of the room he was in, a heavy fog having settled over the world. The heart rate monitor’s erratic beeping only managed to agitate him further. He couldn’t slow his breathing, the air surrounding him feeling cold, thick, and impenetrable like ice. An overwhelming, almost childlike fear was mounting in his chest, but Hannibal was unable to discern its cause. A sob escaped his raw throat without him noticing.

Then, he thought he saw the shadow of a small girl in the corner of the room, and his mind simply buckled; he screamed out loud, the room careening before him. There was a splitting pain at his side, blurring his vision. The dark figure seemed to flicker in and out of existence, mockingly - he couldn't help but reach out towards it in a final, desperate effort. _Mischa, please… stay with me, help me_ …

Moments later, he had one hand wrapped around the throat of the nurse who had rushed inside to attend to him. With the other, he found, he couldn't command his fingers to move. Half-blinded by a veil of tears, he squeezed and squeezed the air from her trachea. She had gotten between him and his Mischa. Nothing could get in his way, not any more...

* * *

Will didn't enjoy hospitals. Of course, one would be hard-pressed to find an individual who claimed otherwise, but Will always found himself especially on edge when surrounded by those awfully sterile white walls. They were exactly opposite of what Will considered to be comforting. He hoped Hannibal was less impartial to hospitals, because he was bound to be residing here for some time. His injuries, although not life-threatening, were not minor. The cumulation of them could have killed him had he not been found when he was. He had been abused in a myriad of ways, and even Will, as much time as he spent in the hospital, didn't know the full catalogue of injuries. There was a gunshot wound which had also cracked a rib, other fractures, lacerations, dozens of cuts and bruises and a minor concussion. It was strange to Will that none of these were fatal. Sheer, incredible luck, perhaps.

No one was sure what exactly had happened to Hannibal. One day, he was running his practice as per usual, seeing all of his regular patients, including Will Graham - the next, he was gone without a trace, vanished. Hannibal was known to honour all of his appointments and was not one to fall ill. Luckily, he was engaged in his social and academic circles and had regular contact with the FBI, so his disappearance was discovered quickly. The search for him began but the efforts were futile, there having been no information or evidence to lead them whatsoever. Will could think of few discernible motives for anyone to take Hannibal - perhaps a disturbed former patient? Or had it been random, a crime of opportunity?

Two days later, Will received a call to his cell phone from an unknown number. There was no speaker on the other line, but only some distorted noises that could have been human voices, or screams. Will’s intuition never failed him in situations like this, and at that moment he was resolutely sure that the call had to be traced.

It indeed led him and Jack Crawford to Hannibal, half-buried in a pile of corpses that were later identified as his captors, whose names Will already could not recall. They were dead and held no more interest for him. Will would never find out why they had taken Hannibal in the first place, and the fact that it was deduced to be Hannibal that had killed them all remained an afterthought for Will. Hannibal was shipped off to a hospital and declared in “serious but stable condition” less than a day later. The staff, however, were concerned about the traces of foreign chemicals found in his system and the needle mark on his forearm. Luckily not opiate, cocaine or any other common hard drug, but they could only speculate on what mental state he would be in upon waking.

Will’s feet carried automatically him to Hannibal’s ward; he lost count how many times he had visited already, only to stare at Hannibal's unconscious form miserably for hours on end. He was surprised to encounter a commotion outside the door; a small huddle of nurses and a doctor blocked the way in. "Er, excuse me?”

“Ah, Mr. Graham.” The doctor nodded and smiled in recognition, but the expression was forced. “I’m very sorry, sir, but this is not a very good time.”

“Did something happen? Is Hannibal -”

“He’s fine. He just tried to strangle one of our nurses, though, so we gave him a sedative. He should be asleep again by now.”

Will blinked, absorbing this. “Why would he…”

“Probably a nightmare or hallucination, something of the sort. Something like that was bound to happen, so we should have taken more precautions. He woke up sooner than we’d expected.” The doctor said something to her colleagues, who dispersed. Distractedly, she looked back at Will, and said, “Mr. Graham, I must apologize again, but if you can perhaps come back in a few days -”

“Yes, of course," said Will. He took his time in leaving.

* * *

True to the doctor's ward, Will was able to see Hannibal by the end of the week. He found the him awake, sitting up in bed and reading something, when he visited again two days later. “Will,” he said as Will entered, voice hoarse from disuse.

“Hi, Dr. Lecter.” Will approached the bedside chair. “May I?”

“Of course.” It was jarring to see Hannibal with his hair mussed, only in a hospital gown and looking rather woozy, gaze not fully focusing on any one spot. Taped cuts and bruises were adorning his face, and Will's attention was drawn to a particularly nasty jagged line that was carved in much too close to the left eye. “Thank you for coming. It’s… good to see you.” There was a sincere warmth to the words. Will noticed that he was reading from a clipboard - his patient reports.

“I’m glad you’re awake. How are you feeling?”

“Drugged,” said Hannibal, “to the eyeballs.” He glanced down at the chart, tapping a space on it and saying, “It’s a lot of morphine…”

Will winced in sympathy, while also being vaguely amused by the psychiatrist speaking so candidly. “I can imagine.”

“I may prefer the pain over this,” Hannibal muttered, then shook his head. “Anyway, never mind that...” A short silence hung between them, laden with a peculiar tension.

“Can… can you remember anything?” Will broke it first, hesitant.

Hannibal stared at Will for several seconds, then the chart in his lap, and then his heavily splinted and bandaged right hand. Will had heard from a doctor that three of those fingers were broken, likely bent back one by one. An involuntary shiver coursed through Will as Hannibal slowly shook his head. “No, I can’t.” He suddenly seemed much younger and smaller than normal, the pillows propping him up dwarfing his presence.

“It’s okay,” said Will hastily, soothing but firm. Hannibal nodded, but something had changed in his face, as if… he _did_ remember. He lay back on his pillows, the clipboard abandoned on his lap, and only then Will detected the faint trembles in his body and the moisture glistening on his skin. His eyes were distant, and suddenly, his breaths were becoming increasingly harsher and more irregular. The heart rate monitor's beeping picked up pace, and a nurse from outside the room was now poking her head through the doorway to survey the situation.

“It looks like a panic attack,” Will called to her, trying to retain his calm.

She scribbled something down on her clipboard and said, "I'll be back with medication, if you can try to keep him still -"

"I will," replied Will, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt, and she went off. Hannibal's good hand was tightly clenched around the metal bedrail, the knuckles white and veins standing out, almost skeletal. "Dr. Lecter, you're safe now, it'll be all right," Will said, but he could hear the desperation seeping into his own voice unconvincingly. "Hold on, okay? The nurse is gonna be back with something that'll help. Please..." Will hovered hesitantly next to the bed, not quite sitting in his chair but not fully standing either. Will didn't wish to touch Hannibal but the man looked so awfully in need of human warmth, and for a moment Will was tempted to give it to him. Hannibal was clearly putting utmost effort into regaining control over himself, but Will could tell he was losing an uphill battle.

"Will, Will.... _Mischa_ ," he was mumbling, hardly intelligible.

"Mischa?" Will repeated dumbly, the unfamiliar word foreign on his tongue. Was it a place? A person? An object?

"They took Mischa away, Will..." It almost sounded pleading, and trailed into a string of words that Will realized was not in English. Will had no idea what Hannibal was talking about, but he felt his distress acutely in his own breast nevertheless. It was at this moment he became certain that Hannibal had experienced something truly horrible before they found him in that warehouse.

“I… I’m really sorry, Dr. Lecter. You’ll be all right. You’ll be fine.” Hannibal was sucking in air through his nose, frantic, eyes squeezed shut as if concentrating intensely. It was difficult for Will to watch, because he knew all too well what it was like to fight one’s own mind for dominance over the body. Whenever he empathized with a depraved criminal too deeply, whenever he woke with a nightmare lingering behind his eyelids… it was the same. Hannibal was falling apart before him and he was unable to do anything, even though he was well aware that he should not be faulted.  _Breathe, breathe_ , Will urged. Hannibal shuddered, more incoherent sentences escaping his lips; then the nurse hurried back into the room with a needle.

Hannibal recoiled violently from her as she attempted to swab a spot on his arm for the injection. She looked to Will urgently. “Mr. Graham, please - can you hold him down -”

Will did as he was asked, feeling Hannibal straining against his grip, muscles so taut that he was afraid something would simply give way and snap. By the time the medicine took effect and Hannibal’s heart had slowed, Will was just as drained as he must be. Will left shortly afterwards, quite sure that Hannibal hadn't heard his murmured goodbye.

After the incident, Will kept visiting regularly, and Hannibal made no outward objections to this. Over the days, he grew stronger and more lucid, his grip on reality faltering less often. It immensely relieved Will to see him regaining some semblance of the immaculate composure that had become his trademark, at least to Will. He began walking under supervision and staying awake for longer amounts of time, usually reading books brought to him by Will and Alana Bloom. He was getting better.

Still, there were times where he would do nothing but stare into space for minutes on end, his eyes disturbingly hollow and limbs tense as coiled springs. He spoke only sparingly, much less than he used to. Will knew that Hannibal loved to talk - he relished the cadence of words and sharing - showing off, rather - his vast knowledge with others. This much Will had easily surmised after spending so much time with him. It made the profiler uneasy to sit in a void of silence when in the ward, but that was now commonplace. In fact, since Hannibal had regained consciousness, they had yet to hold a conversation that didn’t consist mostly of polite niceties.

Will could also tell that nightmares were a continuous occurrance. Hannibal never awoke with anything more than a deep gasp, but several times Will saw the anguish that etched itself into the lines of his face when his eyes opened. Hannibal refused to tell Will or anyone else about what he encountered in his sleep. He claimed to not remember what it was that had wound him here in the first place.

And, Will could never bring himself to ask Hannibal what ‘Mischa’ was, though the curiosity gnawed at him incessantly. He was afraid of what might happen.

* * *

During the long hours he spent lying awake in his bed, Hannibal began the painstaking process of repairing his memory palace. Sections of it lay in shambles, and he could only imagine what could have been done to him to result in such destruction. Layer by layer, brick by brick. He had nothing but time on his hands, and giving himself a mentally taxing task like it did well to keep darker thoughts at bay.

He couldn't stop the memories from trickling back to him with time, however. He felt the drafty warehouse air, the unforgiving concrete scraping against his knees and sides. He saw fragmented glimpses of what punishment they put him through. He remembered what they wanted from him: _Will Graham_. He was supposedly bait, chosen for his close relationship to the special agent. The bullet brought him down first. The following beatings and torture - and injections - ensured he stayed the same way. They were about to contact Will and demand ransom, most likely. But when they dialed his phone, before they could speak into the receiver…. Hannibal remembered the taste of blood on his teeth, both his own and that of others. _All dead_ , Will had said. Hannibal was not stupid, even when his brain was sluggish from medication. It was obvious that it was he who had slaughtered everyone inside that warehouse, though his visitors neglected to tell him this. Alarmingly, he could recall nothing of the physical act of killing his captors, obviously due to the drugs.

He _had_ been frightened, he realized with disgust. The drugs, whatever they were, demolished his most trusted and powerful line of defense - his mind. He was as vulnerable as anyone without that protection, and the addition of physical agony had laid him bare, ripe for the picking for his tormentors. As his grasp on the world slipped further and further from him, his drug-addled consciousness called forth all that he left tucked away in the darker stretches of his memory palace. Those visions kept haunting him now, disregarding whether or not he was awake.

Hannibal supposed that to an extent, he did fear the notion of a death so inconsequential - in such a state of _indignity_ \- discarded like some insignificant animal, after having exposed his innermost demons to undeserving strangers...

Sleep no longer came to him easily. He had been held hostage for most of an afternoon by those same blurry images of the warehouse, complete with a small girl’s cries echoing in his ears - Mischa. To this day Hannibal knew the tone and timbre of her voice exactly. There was a knock at the door, and he collected himself as best as he could. _8:17 p.m. I am in Baltimore, Maryland. My name is Hannibal Lecter. Mischa is dead. I am alive._

He noted the strong scent of food wafting from Will when he came into the room, carrying a Thermos in one hand. Will visited far more often than necessary, though Hannibal tolerated his company. He didn’t particularly enjoy being so exposed to the profiler - or anyone else - but there was little he could do about it. It would be rude to turn him away, and Hannibal appreciated Will's sentiments. The younger man was uttering a greeting, which Hannibal returned before he turned his attention to the container. Will came over to the bedside and set it down on the table before unscrewing the lid; Hannibal took a whiff of the air, deeply through his nose, and asked, “You brought me chicken soup?”

“Yeah,” said Will sheepishly, pulling a bundle of brown paper napkins from his pocket. “I wanted to try making something for you… I thought you might, well…” He busied himself by unfolding the napkins to reveal a spoon wrapped inside. “It’s simple, and I don't know if it's any good, but...”

“I’m sure it is,” Hannibal allowed a hint of a smile. A so-called folk remedy, proclaimed by such a large population to be effective against all sorts of ailments... Hannibal doubted post-traumatic stress disorder was in that list.  He spooned a chunk of chicken and some bits of carrot and celery into his mouth. As he had half-expected, the broth was too salty but somehow bland at the same time, the meat rather tough and the vegetables not cooked thoroughly. It still tasted like gourmet food to him after countless mass-produced hospital meals. How his standards had been lowered. He said, “It’s good.”

Will was looking down at his shoes, mumbling something about farmer’s markets and freshly butchered chickens. Hannibal found it endearing enough to overlook the soup’s taste. Clearly, Will had put effort into it. It proved to Hannibal his theory that Will's talents lay elsewhere, but no matter. Hannibal couldn't deny that the broth was hearty and had a strong warming effect, the latter something he found he coveted these days.

Both that warehouse and the final winter he spent with his Mischa had been cold, so bitingly cold.

* * *

It was Hannibal’s first time back mingling in Baltimore’s socialite circles since his “unfortunate incident”. He politely refused both Will and Jack Crawford’s invitations to stay at their homes. He wished to be alone - completely alone - for the first time since his hospitalization. No strangers monitoring him, no friends keeping constant vigil at his bedside. At least Will and Jack appeared to respect his sentiments, though they couldn’t keep the concern from their faces. Following the doctor’s suggestions, he had spent his first week after being discharged at home, mostly lying in bed, though hardly sleeping. Whenever he shut his eyes he would see... ugliness. Things he would prefer not to see.

By the eighth day of his self-imposed confinement, Hannibal craved having colour back in his life and felt well enough to be out and about. He had chosen to attend the opening of an art show, though he found himself questioning the soundness of this decision only minutes in. It would have been much less strenuous on his still-healing body to be seated and watching a performance rather than ambling around a gallery. It couldn't be helped, and besides, Hannibal was much more interested in the artwork being exhibited here today than in most of the mediocre symphonies currently on tour.

The gallery had acquired several striking pieces, mostly European Romantic paintings by the likes of Blake, Fuseli and Delacroix, as well as a few German works. Hannibal found Romanticism’s exploration of human emotions and the _sublime_ \- awe intermingled with horror - very fascinating. He particularly enjoyed Delacroix; such arresting compositions and dynamism, conveyed through exquisite brushwork. He also loved Friedrich for his melancholy interpretations of nature. It was a pity that this show lacked Turner, whose spontaneous seascapes seemed to be infused with an ethereal magnetism...

“.... what do you think, Hannibal?” Hannibal had been drifting, and a woman nearby was attempting to catch his attention. Her name didn’t come to him at once and he couldn’t be bothered to retrieve it, though she struck him as familiar.

He opened his mouth. “I....”

The woman gave him little chance to continue, and he would have normally noted her rudeness. Tonight, his mind was preoccupied. “But really, the changes in direction the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra took this year were rather appalling, wouldn’t you say…?”

A middle-aged couple joined the circle. Hannibal greeted them and tactfully brushed aside the inquiries about his health. His healing fingers were dressed and the cuts on his face not yet faded, the deep one that just missed his eye in particular, but otherwise he looked relatively normal. Of course, various other unsightly wounds and blemishes belay his fine clothes now, but those were only for him to see.

His thoughts wandered again, and inevitably they came to dwell on what he would rather forget. Too late he tried to turn his focus elsewhere. His chest felt tight, the chatter surrounding him melding into a dull and incomprehensible roar. And for a fleeting moment, he desperately, irrationally wished that Will was with him in this place.

Later, Hannibal would try to pick apart what exactly it was that set him off. Even with his powerful memory, it was impossible to tell. A completely unfounded fear was rushing through him - fear of what? He was not bound and drugged. Mischa was not here. No one could hurt him... or her. He tried to calm himself, inhale more slowly, but the deeper breaths only made his ribs twinge. The sounds and smells of the reception were suddenly overpowering, painful to the senses. He felt trapped.

“Hannibal? You’re awfully quiet.” It was that same woman again, no genuine concern in her voice.

“Excuse me,” he managed to grate out.

Hannibal pushed through the throngs of museumgoers and made it outside, the frigid evening air washing over his damp skin, soothing at first but then freezing. He realized that he was shaking, and it wasn’t because of the cold. Or perhaps it was, but the iciness seemed to come from deep within his gut rather than the Baltimore winter. He was having difficulty breathing evenly again, like a vice was clamped around his lungs. This was a panic attack, Hannibal told himself. There was nothing to be afraid of here, nothing to be worried about. His own words taunted him, as he knew was typical of these sorts of episodes...

He stumbled to his car, parked around the block, wet snow spilling into his shoes. Once in the relative sanctuary of the driver’s seat he allowed a quiet groan to escape him. He rested his forehead against the steering wheel for a long moment, eyes closed - then he made a reckless decision, unlike himself. Though it was already dark, he would be able to get to Wolf Trap before too late. He wondered if Will was home. He hoped so.


	2. Canine Therapy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably a bit OOC and/or inaccurate but I had fun with it; sorry it took a lot longer than expected!

Several of the dogs were milling about at the front even before the doorbell rang. Will checked his watch and got up from his armchair, wondering who could possibly be on his porch at this time of day. He had thought he had imagined the rumbling of engines outside several seconds prior, but evidently that was not the case. 

“Dr. Lecter?” Will failed to contain his surprise. “What…” Hannibal was in a tuxedo, like he was dressed for a formal event, only adding to Will's bafflement. His familiar Bentley was parked not far off. 

“I… May I come in?” He was dishevelled somehow, voice sounding odd, like he’d been shouting. Will also noticed that he was carrying himself asymmetrically, his body seeming to attempt to curl in on itself - he was hurting.

“Yeah, yeah, of course.” Will tried not to let his concern show, scrambling to the kitchen and hastily bringing out artisan hot chocolate, the only non-alcoholic drink of any decent quality he had in his cupboards - he had not been expecting guests. He never did. Besides, Hannibal looked rather… chilled, and Will could tell that it wasn’t just the weather. He skipped the Walmart marshmallows and whipped cream for his unexpected guest.

“Thank you, Will. I’m sorry to surprise you at a time like this.” Hannibal took a sip from the mug, as if there was nothing at all strange or wrong about the scenario.  

“No, it’s alright," said Will carefully, "I just didn’t expect you to be around Wolf Trap."

“I wasn't.” Hannibal set the hot chocolate down on the coffee table for a moment to undo his askew bowtie.

“Ah.” The unspoken question was in the air - _Why are you here?_ \- but Will did not ask it out loud yet.

They nursed their mugs for several minutes in a peaceful silence, the fireplace crackling merrily behind them. The dogs had gathered at the living room, nosing around for treats or anything edible. Several nudged Hannibal’s legs in greeting but he didn’t seem fully present. They were familiar enough with him to not have to investigate him anew every time he visited - except for the latest addition to the pack, a puppy Will had found several weeks back. In truth, Will was unsure if he could afford to invest in a growing young dog, but he figured he could keep him until he could arrange something else. Will started calling him Wolf because he looked rather like one and had no tag to indicate any other name. Will was never the most creative with names; he preferred simple, practical ones, and so did the dogs. Right now, Wolf was sniffing at Hannibal enthusiastically, enough to bring him back from wherever his mind had taken him. He glanced down at the small animal, frowning slightly as if thinking. “I don’t remember seeing this one before.”

“Yeah, he’s a new one,” Will said before clicking his tongue and stooping down, calling the puppy over. He yapped, cocked his head; then, he chose instead to lie down, using Hannibal’s foot as a pillow. Will sighed. “I’m training him. He has a good personality, though. I hope you don’t mind.”

Hannibal only made a low, unintelligible sound in response, putting down his hot chocolate, still full.

“Dr. Lecter…” Will considered his next words, staring at a clump of deformed, half-melted marshmallows floating in his drink. “What’s ‘Mischa’?” He risked.

“Where did you hear that?” There was no mistaking the sudden stiffening of his body, though barely perceptible.

“You said it to me. In the hospital, remember?”

Hannibal looked briefly bemused, and Will realized he didn’t recall it. Will could tell that this in itself troubled him profoundly. “Sorry, I can’t tell you that.” He was trying to be nonchalant, but there was a certain anxiety simmering beneath his relatively calm surface. He wouldn’t look Will in the eye.

Will pushed on. May as well, since he’d already breached the territory. “You’re not ‘fine’, are you.”

Hannibal finally glanced up, his expression inscrutable, then picked up his mug again, holding it without drinking - the gesture was uncharacteristically restless for him. “Sorry?”

“You’re not okay. It doesn’t take _pure empathy_ to see that.” _Don’t play dumb with me_ , Will was tempted to say; fortunately, common sense held him back. He wouldn't have been surprised if Hannibal was able to read the thought in his face, however. 

The psychiatrist only said, “Please, Will. I will be.”

“You’re not doing as well as you’d like me to think. Don’t treat me like an idiot, Doctor.” Will said this more forcefully than he intended, and he saw the barest hint of surprise flicker across Hannibal’s features.

“I don’t need your pity.” His tone was suddenly icy, bordering on menacing, but the words sounded to Will more like a stubborn child’s. In a split second, Hannibal’s face was completely closed off, shuttered, his eyes betraying nothing.

“I don't _pity_ you; I just want to help,” Will’s voice rose a pitch, “I’m your friend.”

“I can manage,” said Hannibal, jaw set; his fingers were curled too tightly around the mug. Uneasiness rose in Will's stomach. He hadn't seen Hannibal quite like this before, even in the hospital. It was unnerving. Still, he refused to back down.

"Then why did you come here?” The silence rang. Will knew that he had just touched a raw nerve. Hannibal's coming here may as well have been a cry for help. He looked like half of his normal self, and it wasn’t only because he was still healing. His demeanor had shifted, curiously lacking in the previous supreme confidence and certainty he used to wear as comfortably as his lavish suits.

“I… I made a mistake. I apologize; I’ll be on my way.” Hannibal abruptly stood, startling Wolf to his feet as well. The puppy went dashing back to his packmates, happily oblivious to the world. Hannibal wordlessly gathered up his possessions, leaving his mug abandoned on the table. 

“Dr. Lecter - wait -” Will tried to grab Hannibal by the sleeve, but the older man flinched away from the touch like some wounded animal, and this involuntary display of vulnerability was alien and frightening to Will. 

“Thank you for the hot chocolate.” Hannibal said mechanically, and Will knew it was futile to try and stop him. Wolf had other ideas; the dog went after Hannibal, bumping against his legs and yipping excitedly. The man shot the little puppy a near-murderous look that Will found rather ridiculous; he nearly started to laugh as Hannibal finally shook free of Wolf and made his way back to the car. 

* * *

Hannibal hadn’t seen Will for nearly three weeks since the night of his impromptu visit to Wolf Trap. Jack Crawford wasn’t about to call him back to Quantico or crime scenes any time soon for obvious reasons. He was yet undecided on when to begin seeing patients again. Hannibal thus spent most of his days reading, drawing and composing, breaking up the monotony with less strenuous culinary projects and careful workouts to help gain back his strength. He healed slowly but steadily, as per expected at his current age. Most of the lacerations and lesions no longer bothered him - though many of them were scarring - and the ribs seemed to have mended themselves. The fingers were stiff and painful, but that was to be expected. The bullet wound still throbbed in time with his heartbeat. By now he was used to it.

Hannibal was unconcerned by his physical injuries. They just needed time. He was, however, aware that his mind was not at its peak condition. Nightmares plagued him often and with ferocity; he found his usual laser-sharp concentration faltering disturbingly often, interrupted by flashes of memories and images. More than once, he looked down at his papers to see that he had subconsciously recreated Mischa's cherubic likeness to perfection in graphite or conte, despite some haphazard lines due to his injured fingers. All of those times, he jerked in his chair and immediately cast the drawings into the fireplace. He lived half in the past, half in the present. The memories that drugs had drawn out in that warehouse would not let him escape.

Hannibal knew psychiatric help would be beneficial, but this was not a battle he was willing to share with anyone else - not that he ever did. He was always alone. Always fending for himself. It had always been that way.

Several mutilated corpses turned up in Baltimore over that winter. They were not artfully killed as was the norm for the Chesapeake Ripper, so much so that even Will Graham had to rule out the killer as the culprit. It was, of course, of Hannibal's doing. He tore into those victims with savagery, _frustration_. He reopened wounds, setting himself back on his long road to recovery - but he found that he hardly cared. The brief surges of adrenaline and fleeting sensation of power were well worth the discomforts, or so he thought. The organs and meat he left untouched, and as he stood over the corpses, Hannibal would wonder. What had become of him? How could he have been reduced to such an _unrefined_ creature?

* * *

The winter grew bitter as the weeks progressed. Will's breaths formed mist in the air, as did Wolf's, but the little dog seemed perfectly content in the cold. As he drove out from Wolf Trap, Will left the window slightly open for the dog, despite how red his ears and cheeks grew from the biting wind that whipped at them. Perhaps the dog really did have wolf blood. 

It had been a long while since Will walked up the front steps to Hannibal's house, but it felt as familiar as ever. Hannibal emerged from behind the front door several seconds after Will rang, in only a loose-fitting shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Will could have sworn that there was more grey lining his loose hair, and there was a look of exhaustion about him. The cuts on his face had mostly healed, but they would leave indelible scars. Judging from his expression, Hannibal had immediately noticed the dog accompanying Will. “Hello, Will. What’s this?”

“I brought somebody for you.”

Hannibal’s frown turned deeper. “Will, I -”

“This is Wolf. I believe you’re already acquainted.” Hannibal’s eyes widened slightly in recognition. The dog had grown in the past few weeks, putting on the pounds quickly, but not yet too difficult a size to manage.

“You named your dog ‘Wolf’?” Will could have been imagining the hint of amusement in the question. Hannibal had always been an enigma to read, even for him, and lately he was even less forthcoming than before.

Will smiled, mostly to himself. Hannibal didn't return the expression. “It’s nothing fancy but it works. Dogs respond well to monosyllabic names. Besides,” he said, tugging Wolf closer, “I wasn’t intending to keep him.”

“Are you suggesting…” Hannibal trailed off, the note of uncertainty so very foreign to his voice.

“I think he can do you some good, and besides, my house is going to be much too crowded when he gets bigger,” said Will evenly.

“And you think mine won’t be?” Hannibal huffed. “Frankly, Will, I’m unsure about this.”

“So am I, but it’s worth a try,” Will said. “They use dogs to help military veterans overcome PTSD.” There was a flash in Hannibal’s eyes when Will said this, quite casually. He looked almost petulant. It was bizarre and somewhat satisfying, witnessing him not having the upper hand of the conversation.

“I am fully aware of those experiments - and that’s all they are as of now, experiments. There’s still a lack of significant empirical data that supports the effectiveness of -”

“Come on, Dr. Lecter. I think he might help with the bad dreams. Dogs are extremely receptive of the emotions of humans and can give you a means of... finding yourself. What’s the worst that can happen?” As if on cue, the little dog barked, and Hannibal eyed the animal at his feet unhappily.

“Actually, I can think of far too many answers to that.”

“You’re just being dramatic.”

“Pardon me?” Hannibal’s ambivalence only gave Will more confidence. He pretended not to hear as he bent down to unclip the leash from the dog. He was a mongrel of course, but Will predicted he would grow into a handsome specimen - Hannibal did place great importance in aesthetics, after all. But most importantly, Wolf had a very good temperament; remarkably easygoing and uncomplicated to train for a stray.

“He hasn’t been trained specifically for this purpose but he’s calm and agreeable. I made sure he’s housebroken, and he has no bad habits - he doesn’t bark much, he’s not a chewer or digger, and mostly does his business outside. I’ve had no trouble with him so far.”

“Will…” Hannibal was shaking his head.

“I can drop by to walk him and clean up after him, and if he becomes too much, I’ll take him home with me.” He fished around in his bag, and drew out a small package. “Here, I brought some leftover kibble. I’ve got his bowl in here, too...” Will made eye contact with Hannibal, dead serious. “Please. Trust me. We can stop any time you want to.” _You need this_ , he added silently.

After what seemed like an eternity’s worth of pensive silence, Hannibal reached out and accepted the dog food from Will, albeit with reluctance. Wolf was sniffing determinedly at Hannibal’s shoes and pant legs. “I think he remembers you from last time. I’ll show you how to walk him. Come, Doctor.”

* * *

Hannibal unsure what compelled him to agree to Will’s endeavor. Perhaps a voice inside him was telling him that he should take whatever help he could get. Perhaps he had just been curious what would happen. Either way, he now had a dog loose in his house, but true to Will’s word, Wolf was no nuisance. He kept by Hannibal’s side for most of the day, trotting by his heels when he walked around and curling up on the floor near him otherwise, occasionally exploring his new surroundings but never straying for long. He was still too small to do much damage. It was odd for Hannibal to not be alone in his house as he had been used to for all of these years, but he surprised himself by not finding it unpleasant per se, even with that bestial smell constantly wafting from the dog. He could understand why Will held his dogs so dear; they were not like humans. They were not judgmental, they asked for no social obligations - they provided unconditional affection. Even to someone like Will, with all of his instabilities and difficulties. Even to someone like Hannibal.

It was an intriguing prospect. Absolute power over and devotion from another being… although it was only a puppy, Hannibal mused. Though, he had to wonder why Wolf had taken to him like so. And -  why _he_ was so able to tolerate the dog.

 _It's a gift from Will,_  he supposed. 

Wolf pestered him more as the day wore on, and Hannibal presumed he was getting bored. He spent some time sitting cross-legged on the floor, allowing Wolf to play tug-of-war with him using an old rope Will left behind for the purpose. This mindless activity was rather relaxing, though not exactly for his still-sore body. After having tired himself out, Wolf came over to Hannibal and lay down next to him, his warm body pressing against Hannibal’s thigh. He watched the rise and fall of the furry flank for several minutes, contemplative.

Hannibal didn’t sleep that night, instead making do with several naps spread throughout. He left the house past midnight and returned with several containers of fresh human organs. Wolf, not asleep, came to greet him at the door, tail wagging and sniffing at Hannibal’s haul curiously. Hannibal shooed him away as he went to clean and package the meat in the kitchen. Wolf insisted on following him there as well. He would have to ask Will for advice on teaching the dog to stay out of certain rooms, particularly the pantry, or problems could arise...

The following day passed similarly. In the afternoon, Hannibal took Wolf out for a walk around the neighbourhood and the dog was cooperative, save for one instance where he spotted a fellow canine across the street. The other dog’s owner recognized Hannibal and waved, which he acknowledged with a polite inclination of the head. Wolf barked and Hannibal pulled him onward. Bending down to pick up after him was a new experience for Hannibal and one he was less than fond of. 

At the dog's insistence, Hannibal let Wolf sleep in his bedroom. 

That night, like many others, Hannibal was caught in the throes of a nightmare. He dreamt of the warehouse, of his own mind slipping from him, of losing control, of Mischa. Typical, but no less draining. He awoke, gasping, to an unfamiliar moisture on his face. It was Wolf’s wet nose and tongue, nudging at his cheek; the dog’s front paws were on the edge of the mattress, just low enough. Hannibal forgot to be irritated as he sat up, untangling himself from his covers, breathing deeply to slow his racing pulse. His chest was hurting from the violent beating of his heart, and the shadows of his room seemed to threaten to swallow him up.

“I told you to stay off the bed,” he murmured, gently pushing Wolf back down to the floor with a shaking hand. The clock read four a.m. The dog whined.

Hannibal stood from the bed, a wave of nausea washing over him at the movement, and made his way to the bathroom in the dark on unsteady legs. Switching on the lights momentarily blinded him, making him lean against the sink for support.

His knees felt weak. He needed to sit down. The bathroom tiles were cold and hard, but he didn’t care - his bed seemed like a morbidly long distance away. The mat on the floor provided some cushioning, and he positioned himself on it like it was a rock jutting up from a vast, black ocean. Hannibal brought his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around himself, as if that would protect him from his own grotesqueness. He couldn’t muster the concentration to take shelter inside his memory palace. He buried his face in his forearm, stifling any unwanted sounds that threatened to escape him. _Like a little boy_.

Some time later, Hannibal became aware that Wolf had trotted into the bathroom without him noticing. The dog was sitting in front of him, solemnly silent and head cocked to one side, almost in a sympathetic manner. Hannibal let out a strained choke of a laugh. There he was, trying to glean comfort from a _dog_... But, at the moment, it seemed an inviting option. Hannibal reached out an uncertain hand toward Wolf, and as if he had been been waiting for an invitation, the animal padded closer, placid, allowing Hannibal to hold him close. Wolf’s fur was soft, his pungence rooting Hannibal in the real world. The warm little body reminded Hannibal of Mischa’s, but the memories that came flooding back to him weren’t those of the vicious winter, the hunger, or the agony.

He also smelled Will Graham on the dog, and that too was somehow a source of calm. That wasn't exactly right, was it? Shouldn't he be Will's source of stability, and not the other way around? He willed himself not to think, instead putting all of his focus into Wolf. He committed the smells and sensations to memory, feeling the dog's small heart thrumming under his palm. 

When Hannibal cracked opened his eyes, he realized that it was morning, sunlight streaming in from the windows on the opposite wall. He had fallen asleep on the bathroom floor, his face resting on the dog curled up in the hollow formed between his knees and abdomen. His back and buttocks were obscenely sore, but he had gotten the best sleep he had in weeks. As he shifted, ignoring the aches that went shooting through his joints, Wolf was jostled from his spot in his lap. The small dog ran off into Hannibal's bedroom, like nothing extraordinary had happened the night before.

* * *

Wolf was a bundle of excitement when Hannibal returned from his trip to the grocer’s. Will had just revealed to him a new toy he had brought when Hannibal opened the front door, saying hello to Will. The dog stood to paw at the psychiatrist’s leg, trying to show off the toy in his mouth, and Hannibal gave him a rub of the head before going to put down the bags down in the kitchen. Wolf faithfully scampered after him, mirroring his every step.

“He really likes you,” said Will, a smile threatening to form on his lips. In truth, he had not anticipated such results, and so soon at that. There had been no way of knowing how Wolf - and Hannibal - would react to the other’s presence. It was entirely uncharted territory. Maybe, just maybe, Will’s gamble had paid off.

Hannibal shrugged, taking off his coat and folding it over a chair. "Perhaps he enjoys my cooking."

"You're cooking for the dog?" Will couldn't help but grin fully.

"I haven't had the chance to restock his food," Hannibal explained seriously, “I did do some research for it, though I suppose I could have just phoned you.”

"Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” said Will. “You're going to spoil him."

Hannibal sat and scratched the dog behind the ears. "I may yet," he sighed. It had been nearly two weeks since Will left Wolf with him. Will, as promised, visited often to help care for the dog, continuing to train him and walking him occasionally. Wolf was growing even faster now, probably aided by the rich nutrition he was getting from homemade food - Will had no doubt that Hannibal’s menu for the dog would be as well-crafted as everything else he produced. Will estimated he would be about the size of a Labrador fully grown. “Thank you for walking him.”

“It’s no big deal. I enjoy it. Say…” Will hesitated for a fraction of a second. “Do you have time to come over to my place? Wolf can probably use the company, and maybe you, too...”

Hannibal smiled ruefully, leaning back in his chair. “Do I appear that lonely to you?”

“No, no, of course not,” Will replied quickly, inwardly kicking himself - “but I thought… since you’re not seeing patients yet, and…”

“I took no offense, Will.”

Hannibal agreed to come back to Wolf Trap with him. Will wondered how much of it was due to courtesy and the fact that he probably had nothing in the way of plausible excuses to refuse. They spoke little in the car, but it was not an uncomfortable silence. Will glanced sidelong at Hannibal several times, and wanted to think that he looked less… haunted. He was a healthier colour and he seemed more in the moment, more _alive_. Though, the scars on his face were as vivid as ever, marring his aura of perfect put-togetherness...

The dogs greeted them at the door, and Wolf was enthusiastic to be reunited with his brethren. Somehow, Will managed to convince Hannibal to sit on the floor with him, amongst the dogs. Excited to have a potential new playmate, they were all over the psychiatrist in an instant, and Will was pleasantly surprised to see that he didn’t outwardly protest.

“I didn’t know you’d be so good with dogs,” Will confessed. “You’ve always struck me more as a cat person.”

“Did you, now.” Hannibal was clearly amused, his head tilting to one side, decidedly catlike, while one of the dogs nosed him in the elbow.

“Yeah,” said Will, slightly embarrassed. Why had he said that? “You’ve never had a dog, have you?”

Hannibal said nothing for a moment, his hands running over Winston’s belly. “My family used to own one when I was a child, I think,” he replied at last. His eyes had grown distant.

Will frowned. When was the last time Hannibal had mentioned his family? Wolf was burrowing into his lap and Buster pulled at the puppy’s tail. “You think?”

“I can’t quite remember.” Will could sense that Hannibal was telling the truth, a slight shadow falling over his face, and the profiler decided not to press him further. Hannibal glanced at him, as if in gratitude. He was quiet for the next several minutes, focused intensely on the task of combing his fingers through Winston's fur. Will let him be, watching Wolf play fight with some of the smaller canines. He tried to imagine what Hannibal would be like alone with the puppy. Perhaps stern, exerting command over Wolf like he did over all areas of his life. Perhaps not... Hannibal Lecter was difficult for Will to predict.

“I think I’ll take them outside,” Will declared, standing up. “You can stay here if you’d like. It’s cold out and it’ll be a trek through the snow.”

“I’ll come with you.”

Pulling on his coat, Will frowned. “Are you sure? You really don’t -”

“I insist. Fresh air will do me good.” At Will’s doubtful glance, Hannibal added, “You forget that I am a medical professional.”

“No, I don’t. I just don’t trust you to diagnose and prescribe yourself. I don't trust anyone to do that, and I learned that from experience.”

Hannibal snorted. “You can believe me, Will. I’m not going to drop dead out there if that’s your concern.”

“How reassuring,” Will muttered as he bent down to clip the leash onto Wolf’s collar, and called the others over.

Hannibal called from the coat stand across the foyer, “What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“I’m sure,” said the psychiatrist dryly, pulling on gloves and picking up his scarf from the table.

After a while of hiking through the snow with the dogs running ahead, Will found a log at the edge of the woods that served well as a makeshift park bench. It was in good time, as Will had noticed Hannibal’s quickening of breath. He often sat there alone, enjoying the scenery of his house against the vast sky. It was strange to have Hannibal next to him, but Will rather liked it. The dogs were romping in the clearing in front, but Wolf soon separated from the pack and came to the bench. Will fished in his pocket for a ball that he proceeded to throw, and Wolf proudly brought it back to Hannibal, setting it before him, bushy tail wagging.

Hannibal hurled the ball away from the bench. Wolf went happily chasing after it, making a haphazard trail of pawprints in the snow. Will smiled, feeling a joy warm and simple like he seldom did.

Some time later, Hannibal's arm faltered, his expression twisting and briefly doubling over. Anxiety leaping into his throat, Will touched Hannibal's back without thinking. "Are you okay?"

"It's fine," he said dismissively, though his voice was somewhat strained, "It's probably the cold. Makes me sore at times."

"We can go back inside now." Wolf had come over, looking concerned. He was nudging at Hannibal with his snout, exploratory. 

Hannibal shook his head, his fingers caressing the dog under the chin, the movement calming. "No, I enjoy it here. Just a few more minutes."

"If you say so," said Will reluctantly. He took the ball from Hannibal and tossed it to Wolf again, then inhaled deeply. “Do you want to talk about what happened?”

Hannibal at first did not reply, watching the dog return with the ball and drop it back into his hand. He cradled it between his palms and sat unmoving despite the Wolf's expectant barks. “No,” He answered finally. “I’d rather not. Perhaps…. perhaps some other time.” Almost hesitant, he added, “I hope you understand, Will.”

Will was admittedly disappointed, but he just nodded. “If you ever need to…”

“Thank you.” Hannibal’s gaze was downcast, looking at Wolf with unnecessary concentration. “Will…”

“Yes?”

“I appreciate your help.” Will felt a blush involuntarily spread across his cheeks and hoped hard that Hannibal would not notice. Who was he trying to kid? Hannibal noticed _everything_. He was still, as if daring Will to make the next move. With some determination on his part, Will turned and immediately took Hannibal by the back of the head; his lips found Hannibal's, soft and warm. The older man, as naturally as though he had been expecting this turn of events, wrapped his arm around Will, bringing him in closer. Will let his fingers tighten in Hannibal's silvering hair, and his other hand found the small of his back.

Wolf barked again, and Will pulled free, muttering against Hannibal’s neck, “Not now, stupid dog...”

Hannibal laughed, the air tickling Will's ear. Will wondered if he had even heard the sound before, and felt a thrill within his breast. "That's rather rude, Will...." The murmured words hardly registered for Will as Hannibal pressed his mouth to the profiler's again. Will eagerly savoured the kiss, holding Hannibal tightly in his embrace and drinking in his now-familiar scent.

"You're not alone," he whispered when they broke apart.

Hannibal only said, "I know."

"You made me worry." Will closed his eyes, letting his forehead touch Hannibal's. He felt Hannibal shrink in his grasp, ever so slightly, and regretted saying what he just had.

"I apologize." 

"That was stupid of me, I'm sorry. You know you can't blame yourself for... any of it."

Hannibal held Will's gaze for an uncomfortably long time before he replied in a low voice, "I suppose you're right."

Hannibal moved his eyes to Will's house on the horizon and the profiler could hardly guess what he could be thinking. He knew it was foolish to think that Hannibal was as he used to be. The older man was clearly different now - _damaged_ , as much as Will hated to label him in such a way. But, he told himself, they had made progress. And looking down at Wolf, Will felt irrationally and blithely hopeful that everything would, in time, right itself. 

They sat, their gloved fingers entwined between them. Wolf had wisely given up on playing more catch and was now lying at Hannibal's feet, ears drooping sleepily. The other dogs were continuing to enjoy themselves, and their barks filled the thick quiet of the snow-covered trees. Just as he was about to suggest again to head back into the house, Will felt a weight on his shoulder and turned to see Hannibal's head resting on him. Was he asleep? Will shifted on the bench, but not due to discomfort, and Hannibal made a contented humming sound. Wolf yawned massively, his small pink tongue curling in the breath steaming from his mouth, and Will felt Hannibal smile.

_Just for a bit longer, then._


End file.
